


This Old Estranged Fiance Of Mine

by Savageandwise



Series: Out of the Blue or Out of Sight [2]
Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, McLennon, Music, Romance, Unfaithfulness, lost weekend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21637336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: John and May entertain Paul and Linda and a friend at their new flat in New York. Paul desperately tries to make sense of what transpired between them in L.A. and of John's new friendship with Elton John.
Relationships: Elton John/John Lennon (implied), John Lennon/May Pang, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Linda McCartney/Paul McCartney
Series: Out of the Blue or Out of Sight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1526279
Comments: 26
Kudos: 70





	This Old Estranged Fiance Of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of Whatever Gets You Thru The Night, my John and Elton fic but you don't really have to read the first fic.  
> It's also the closest I'll come to writing a song fic. Haha. Joke. I had so much fun choosing the music.

Seeing John again always feels the same, no matter how long it's been, no matter what state their relationship's in. It's a sweet ache, a pain like a healing wound, scabbed over and tingling. A thick crust of resentment that, when picked away, draws blood. But it feels good, it feels like healing, like relief. Like straying too far from your parents at Blackpool and finding them again by the roller coaster. There had never been a lovelier sight. He'd never stray again. Never. Until next time.

"This and that," John is saying. "Nothing special."

Paul wishes they could lose Linda and May and Arlene. Arlene is a friend of May's, a Record Plant girl. She did _Imagine_ with John and Yoko. Paul is cautious around her; you never know who Yoko recruited for her cause. Even May is torn between her loyalty to Yoko and her love for John. These days John and Paul are constantly surrounded, they can never speak face to face. In truth, Beatle John and Beatle Paul were always surrounded. Only now he's aware of it. 

"You've been recording your new album," Paul prompts him. John hasn't really forgotten that, he's just being modest, or evasive. Maybe he doesn't want to rock the boat, they've been getting along so well.

"Oh, yes and I've been seeing a bit of Elton John. He wanted to cover “Lucy”. Or rather I suggested he cover it."

They're in the living room sitting on the floor near the fireplace, a pile of records between them. Stevie Wonder is on the turntable telling reggae woman to boogie on, he'd like to see her in the raw.

"Did you?" Paul asks, trying to sound disinterested. He looks down at the black and white carpet, traces the pattern. John must have had it shipped from Tittenhurst, he remembers sitting cross-legged on it there.

"Yes. He wanted to do one of my songs as a...you know...as a tribute. I thought it suited his style."

John holds up an LP and Paul nods vaguely. He sees a grey corner in the pile and pulls the album out slowly. It's his own _Band On The Run._ He covers it up again but feels a warmth spread in his chest. John has his album. Paul longs to ask him which song is his favourite but doesn't want to spook him. John can be so touchy about Paul's music.

"A tribute?" Paul asks, dragging his attention back to the conversation.

John stares at him pensively for a moment.

"What?" Paul asks, opening his eyes wide.

"Are you being deliberately obtuse?"

"Talented young man, Elton," Paul says, his eyes fixed on John's face.

There's a strange little twist to John's lips when he hears that, the tip of his nose turning pink. Paul's stomach squirms uncomfortably. He runs a hand through his hair, pulls on the shorter strands in the front.

"Isn't he?" John agrees. His tone is laced with pride, his expression oddly smug. "You can barely turn on the radio without hearing one of his songs."

He discards the LP he's holding and turns his back to Paul. Paul raises an eyebrow at the opening notes and the heavy plodding bass. This old thing. He can't help grinning.

" _It's just like heaven being here with you!_ " Rosie Hamlin sings in her high-pitched, girlish voice.

"I've met him a few times," Paul says. " _Top of the Pops_. And parties and such."

" _You're like an angel, too good to be true,_ " Rosie croons.

John raises his eyebrows. "He didn't mention that." 

"Why would he? We're not bosom girlfriends, we sang together at a party," Paul says.

And there it is again, that pinched, anxious look on John's face. The look on his face as he dragged Yoko along with him to the loo. At some point George explained the reason for that expression to him.

"He's worried you'll screw her if he lets her out of his sight for five minutes."

It would have been pointless to explain to John that he had absolutely no intention of screwing Yoko. Just as it's pointless to ask John straight out what's going on with Elton. Something real? Or is he just trying to make him jealous?

"I remember the first time I met Elton was at Abbey Road, must have been '68? I was playing “Hey Jude” on piano. He was standing around with another lad...small, dark, one of those pixie-like faces."

John laughs out loud. "Pixie? You mean Bernie? Bernie Taupin, his lyricist."

"Yeah, well I didn't know who he was back then. I thought they were lovers."

There was a subtle sort of intimacy between them, one that seemed familiar to Paul at the time. Bernie was leaning towards Elton, Elton's hand was on his shoulder. They reminded him of himself and John. 

" _I love you, I do! Ooh Angel Baby, my Angel Baby!_ " Linda, May and Arlene shriek. It's more laughing than singing, and Paul hopes to God they're amused enough to stay put. Or better yet, they can climb out onto the roof through the window in the kitchen, enjoy the view. He'll be alone with John then, or something close to it.

"Not lovers, no," John says.

"The rumour mill says it's Elton and his manager. So, I was half right."

He'd met John Reid too, a small man, one of those dark Scottish types with the temperament of an excitable chihuahua. Officially Elton was interested in women but at parties Reid was constantly at Elton's side, his hand hovering within grasping distance or flat on Elton's back or gripping his elbow, his eyes bright and fierce with possessiveness. Their involvement was unmistakable if you knew what to look for. Paul used to catch his John looking at him like that once upon a time.

Paul tries to catch John's eye now, wills him to tell him what's going on. What they are to each other these days. They'd been out of their minds on coke in Santa Monica but Paul can remember the feeling of John's body pressed to his. He remembers the fresh scent of lime, sugar syrup on his tongue. He remembers the gorgeous physicality of it. So many of his memories are like stick figure drawings. His mother, a crude rounded figure with dark hair, straight dark brows, squinting in the yellow sunlight. Brian, collar and cuffs, a faint whiff of aftershave, his loopy handwriting on hotel stationary. Only the music is fixed in his mind, note for note, like the engraving inside a wedding ring. And John. Larger than life. In Technicolour. 

At the time Paul thought he was being so cool and unfathomable. In hindsight, he'd spent that whole day in Santa Monica desperately trying to rekindle a liaison they'd left off half a decade ago. 

"Fresh orange juice. That's the secret," he said, picking up two oranges and juggling them. 

John tilted his head to one side and squinted sceptically. "That's not a secret, it's just a breakfast margarita."

Paul let the fruit slide out of his hands and roll under the kitchen counter.

"Oh, you're an expert now, are you? Been in L.A. a week or two and you're a connoisseur," he said in a prickly tone.

"Say that again," John said, ignoring Paul's peevishness and batting his eyelashes. _"Connoisseur._ Go on, talk French to me."

He picked up the squat, square bottle of Cointreau and took a swig, handed it to Paul.

"Cointreau," Paul says, taking the bottle and setting it down firmly. "Triple sec, l'orange, le citron. Well, citron vert. But they'll do in a pinch," he sang. 

He took hold of the wooden-handled kitchen knife, sliced the oranges and limes in half straight on the counter without a chopping board and handed them to John to juice.

"Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?" John asked, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Paul's breath caught in his throat. He didn't trust himself to answer. John put a lime-sticky hand over Paul's, ran his thumb over his wrist bone for a split second as he took the proffered fruits.

"Why do you have a great, bloody sack of limes anyway?" Paul asked, changing the subject awkwardly.

"Harry brought them, he's worried we'll come down with scurvy," John explained.

He juiced the oranges and limes dutifully, wincing as the acid attacked the ragged skin of his cuticles. At the sink he turned on the tap and rinsed his hands. Paul walked over and thrust his own hands under the stream. 

"I think scurvy is the least of your problems," Paul said, rolling his eyes. "Cuba Libre is your main source of vitamins, I take it?"

John's fingers slid between his and he felt the delicious lurch of danger deep in the pit of his stomach.

"Nonsense," he said, his voice a trifle hoarse. "I eat me greens. Just like Aunt Mimi taught me to."

John stood very close, the sharp angle of his hip pressing against Paul's. His hands were still wet, he slid them up and down the front of Paul's t-shirt, drying them deliberately, a possessive sort of smile on his face. Then he wrapped his hands around Paul's forearms, squeezed gently.

"And by greens you mean Mary Jane," he laughed.

Paul moved a fraction so his groin was flush against John's. He sucked in a gasp of breath when he felt Paul hard against him, his eyes going black with desire. 

"It's green, ain't it?" John asked, dropping his hands and rubbing his thumb against Paul's hip bone.

"Practically a vegetable," Paul agreed.

John's breath was coming out in small, uneven huffs. He slid his hands against Paul's back, crumpled them into tight fists, clutching his t-shirt. "Paul," he sighed, a raw, anguished edge to his voice that was so thrilling it took Paul’s breath away.

He leaned his forehead against Paul's, he could feel his breath against his face, smell the sweet, slightly bitter scent of Cointreau. Then John paused, leaned in a bit. Paul shut his eyes, ready for it, John's mouth on his, that kiss he'd been fantasising about for years. John just stood there frozen, a soft mocking smile on his lips.

"What are you waiting for?" Paul whispered. "No one's looking."

"Scared of that evil caterpillar sitting on your lip," John said with a grin. "And that…" he raised his hand, brushed a finger to the small patch of hair growing on Paul's chin, "...looks like you missed a spot..."

"It's modern," Paul said, annoyance creeping into his voice. 

"That what it is?" John asked. "It's dead scary."

"Fuck you," Paul breathed and mashed his mouth against John's.

It was better than he'd imagined, better than he remembered. Paul held on tight to John's shirt, his head swimming and his knees like jelly. He knew they should stop, someone could walk into the kitchen at any moment, but it was as if the brakes inside him were broken. He pulled John down to the floor with him and slid his body between his legs. His heart was going a million miles an hour. John put his hands on either side of Paul's face. 

"Slow down," he said with a gentle laugh.

But Paul couldn't, wouldn't, slow down. What if this was all the time they had? What if someone walked in and saw them like this, on the floor, snogging like teenagers. He didn't care, he didn't care, all he wanted was John. He gripped John's collar, pulled him on top of him. The tiled floor was cool against his back, John was heavy above him. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul spied the orange he had lost while juggling a few inches from his face. He reached out and lazily swatted it away. John brushed the hair out of Paul's face and sucked in his breath. He wondered how he must look to John. Hungry, starving for his touch. He reached down, fumbled with the buttons of John's jeans. He looked up into his eyes, dared John to stop him.

"Are you fucking? Or wrestling? With you two neither option would be particularly surprising," said a dry voice from the doorway. "I'd say carry on but I was promised margaritas."

Paul looked over John's shoulder and saw Keith Moon's slightly hunched figure leaning against the frame. Keith stooped to pick something up off the floor and bounced it once in his hand; it was that bloody orange again. He had a bemused sort of expression on his pleasant face.

Back in the present, in John's living room, Paul gazes out of the glass doors that open onto the terrace. It's too dark to see the river now but he knows it's there. "Fucking Moonie," he says irritably as the song draws to an end, turning back to John.

John stares at him, his brows knitting together and then the shadow of a smile flickers across his lips. "Fucking Moonie," he agrees.

Paul walks over to the turntable and changes the record, searches for the correct groove and lets the needle drop. It's a slow one, an Irving Berlin tune. John reaches over to take the cover out of Paul's hands. Frank Sinatra's album _All Alone_. It was released in 1962; they were just starting to really make it. The song is older though, something their parents would have listened to. 

"You've gone all soft and sentimental on me," John says, his mouth twisting bitterly but his eyes are full of strange tenderness.

Paul swallows awkwardly, unsure of what to say to that. He wants to pick up where they left off in Santa Monica. He wants to dance with John, close, like lovers dance. He wants to know what Elton means to John. 

_"What'll I do when I am wondering who is kissing you, what'll I do?"_ Paul sings along with Frank a verse too soon.

It's so on the nose he can't help but laugh at himself, though that hadn't been his intention when he put the song on. John looks a bit flustered.

"I feel like I ought to ask you if you want to dance. Or maybe bring you a box of chocolates. Or ask your parents' permission," John jokes.

"Too late now," Paul says. 

John nods gravely and suddenly Paul isn't at all sure what he meant by that. Too late to ask his parents? Too late for the romance they never fully acknowledged? It's not too late, is it? He raises his eyebrows expectantly at John but can't get the words out. What is Elton to you? Is it too late for us?

The girls are smoking weed in the kitchen and laughing hysterically. 

"Getting awfully romantic there, fellas!" Linda calls out, her words punctuated with May's giggles, or maybe Arlene's.

Paul whips his head in the direction of the door but the girls aren't there. Linda's talking about the music. He reaches for the needle to stop the song but John's hand is on his waist, pulling him close. He spins him away and pulls him back in again, and for once Paul lets him lead. When John lets go to change the song Paul grips the back of a chair, tries to shake the fuzziness from his head.

"Too much wine and reefer?" John asks.

Paul shakes his head sharply. "Nostalgia and romance."

John lets the needle drop and walks over to Paul, straddles the chair he's clinging to.

"Heady stuff," he says, gripping the space between Paul's hands. 

Paul laughs nervously as the song begins, that pompous blast of brass, the sheer drama of it. Then Dusty's sultry vocal, luxuriant as velvet. There's another screech of laughter from the next room and John rolls his eyes.

"Fuck's sake, John," Paul whispers.

John half rises, takes Paul's chin in one hand. He can hear the sound of footsteps, a door slam, breathless laughter. Arlene is at the door, her face flushed red, blonde hair in disarray. She's looking right at them, her eyebrows raised.

"Let's go get more booze, ladies. There's a liquor store a block down," she says loudly, drowning out Dusty. 

One of John's hands is on Paul's wrist, the other still on his chin. He doesn't let go, he's looking at Arlene calmly. "That sounds perfect. Paul makes a mean margarita, you know?"

Arlene doesn't answer, she just stares and shuts the door behind her firmly. He can hear May and Linda grousing good-naturedly while they put on shoes. As soon as they hear the door shut, Paul pulls John into his arms, like it's a goddamn film, with Dusty in the background crying: believe me, believe me, I can't help but love you. His fingers curl in John's hair and he kisses him so fiercely their teeth scrape against each other. He's calculating furiously: one block, a few minutes to choose a couple bottles of drink, a few more to pay, five to walk back. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? A rare, sweet half hour? He pulls up John's shirt, gasping for breath between kisses. John's hand is on his hips, pushing him away gently. He struggles close again, desperate for John to feel how much he wants him. He splays his hands against the soft, bare skin of John's stomach, lets out a soft moan he can't seem to swallow. It doesn't matter, they're finally alone.

John pushes at his hips again and Paul finally understands, he's pushing him away. 

"What?" Paul asks, his voice so thick with desire he can barely get the word out.

"There's someone else now."

Paul shuts his eyes, laughs throatily. He gets to work unbuttoning John's shirt. "Well, I know that. They'll be back soon, let's not waste it."

"It's Elton," John says bluntly.

Paul lets his hands drop, struggles to understand what John is saying. "What do you mean?" 

He knows it's Elton, he knew it before now. Wasn't this what he wanted? For John to admit it?

"I mean Elton put it in," John says, putting his hands on Paul's cheeks and holding his gaze.

"What?" Paul asks, aroused and confused, his stomach sinking with disappointment.

"Elton fucked me," John clarifies, his voice vibrates with pride. 

Paul's hands spasm, clenched in John's shirt. "You never...I never knew you wanted..." 

"Well, I did want it."

Paul slides his hands down to the waistband of John's trousers, pulls at his belt until John draws in a sharp painful breath. Anger burns in his stomach. How dare that fat, balding, four-eyed fuck? 

"So did I," Paul concedes.

"You did?"

He's never seen anything as comical as John's face. The flush that stains his cheeks, spreading down his throat like a heat rash.

"I do," Paul says impulsively. 

He lets himself imagine Elton's wide mouth on John's, his stubby fingers wrapped around John's cock. _Mine,_ he thinks fiercely. He kisses John again, as if he can erase the taint where Elton has been. The song is over, all they can hear is the record going round and round tunelessly, the crackle of static and the sound of their kisses. John groans into his mouth, runs his hands down the front of Paul's shirt and further down. He cups him through the fabric of his trousers.

"Now?" John whispers even though they're alone.

John's skin is feverishly warm, his eyes bright. He pulls Paul into his arms and presses his nose into his hair.

"You're not angry?" he asks. He sounds like a naughty child who expects to be punished. He sounds like he wants to be punished.

"Of course I'm angry," Paul breathes. "I'm livid."

John whimpers against his cheek, a shiver runs through him so acute he collapses against him bonelessly. When he kisses Paul it feels like he's confessing his sins, begging for absolution. Paul imagines stripping off their clothing and lying together on the floor. He remembers that time, in Paris, naked on the narrow hotel bed, John's calloused fingers whispering against his skin. He remembers longing to take John like he would a woman, sheath himself in his willing flesh. Paul tells him that now. John chokes back a moan, his eyes rolling back in his head.

The women will be back soon with booze and cigarettes. They probably only have a few minutes left. Paul reaches over to button John's shirt again, smooths his hands over his unruly hair. John's eyes are shut, he looks like he's going to be sick. 

"John," Paul says, fixing him with a stern look. "I want to do it. I'll call you tomorrow...the next day...we'll figure it out."

John looks away, then straightens Paul's collar. "You won't. You'll lose your fucking nerve." 

They can hear the key in the lock and then the joyful babbling of their girls. Paul looks down, adjusts his stiff prick shamefacedly. 

"Babe?" Linda calls out. "Come make us a cocktail. I'll juice the lemons."

"In a minute," Paul says. His voice sounds thin and strained.

John shakes his head and unfolds his legs, gets up to change the record.

"I won't beg you," he says, his back to Paul.

The horrible knot in Paul's stomach pulls tight again. The places where it had begun to unravel sear with pain that is old and new. Behind him, John is looking for the right groove. A brief unrecognisable blast of music fills the room and then the sickening squeal of the needle being torn away. Then the sound of the Hammond organ and that raw, stuttering guitar riff, the careless crash of the drum, like something accidentally tossed to the ground. His own voice echoed back to him: I can't tell you how I feel.

"They said I was trying to sound like you," Paul says softly.

John turns, the album cover is clutched in his hands. His expression is marvelously vulnerable. "Were you?"

Paul tries to think of a clever answer, something biting and flirtatious.

"I wasn't really. But there you were anyway," he says honestly.

"Paul, you insufferable show-off," Linda says from the doorway. 

Paul's cheeks are burning. He looks up at John, but he's studying the back of the album as if seeing it for the first time. 

"Oh, I'm sure John put it on. He listens to that album all the time," May says.

He tries not to smile but he can't help himself. John is flustered, his eyes unnaturally bright. He shrugs at Paul as he walks out the door. Paul brushes his fingers against John's hand as he passes.

They make cocktails and Arlene and May commandeer the stereo. They say they've had enough of all that romantic nonsense, they want to dance. Paul makes margaritas, drinks tequila straight from the bottle to take the edge off his thwarted desire. They all get sloppy, silly drunk and pile up on the brown velvet couch. May is sitting on John's lap, he strokes her knee idly. He can feel John's gaze heavy on him. It's for him, Paul realises, these caresses are for him, not May. His skin prickles with lust. Paul slides his hand over the velvet of the couch.

"Imagine John in Madison Square Garden," May says, rubbing herself against John like a cat. "People will go wild."

"With Elton," Paul says. He's putting the finishing touches on a joint, looking at John and May from under his lashes.

"Yes. With Elton," John confirms. His hand travels up May's thigh. "It's sure to be a grand old show."

"Quite the performer, Elton," Linda says, pouring herself another drink. "Were you thinking of working with him in the future, John? Writing music?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Paul scoffs. 

Linda shrugs and takes the joint out of Paul's hand. 

"Is it?" John asks. "Is it ridiculous?"

Paul's had enough of Elton. He doesn't want think of the man fucking John, his John. He certainly doesn't want to think of them writing together.

"I didn't think Elton's music was your cup of…" Paul begins.

John pushes May off his lap distractedly and leans closer to Paul.

"Jealous?"

There's a strange wild look on John's face, a fierceness, a tightness around his mouth. Paul feels a crackle of danger in the air. For a moment Paul thinks John might kiss him here in front of his wife, in front of May and Arlene. For a moment he doesn't care.

"Yes," Paul mumbles.

John lets out his breath, half laugh, half hiss. Everyone is looking at Paul like they're waiting for a punchline that never comes.

"Alrighty then," Linda says abruptly, hooking her hand under Paul's arm. "Someone's had a bit too much. Time for bed."

"I'm fine," Paul insists, a tremor of irritation creeping into his voice.

Linda's hand spasms against his elbow. "Well, maybe I've had too much. I need to get some sleep."

John's eyebrows are raised, his lips twitch slightly but he doesn't protest.

"Oh, no!" May exclaims. "If only we had a guest room, you could stay!"

Linda kisses May on both cheeks. "I'll call you. We'll have coffee or something."

Arlene hangs back like a surly teenager, sneaking looks at John and Paul. Paul wishes he had a sharp, pithy line for her. Something to make her feel foolish even though it isn't really her fault she saw them in a compromising position.

When Linda walks out into the hall John and Paul face each other. They hesitate awkwardly before embracing, even though hours ago they were practically making love. Paul curls his fingers in the soft hair at the nape of John's neck. John's lips are at his ear.

"Please," John whispers. 

Paul thinks he must have heard wrong. He tries to pull away to study his face but John holds him tight, clutches two fistfuls of Paul's shirt. "Paul," he says under his breath, "please."

John is begging after all. It's horrible and exhilarating at once. He puts his hands on John's shoulders, kisses him quickly, carelessly on the lips. Then he steps out into the hall where Linda is waiting for him.

 _"We'll meet again..."_ Paul sings, doing a little dance step. 

John smiles at him weakly, does a lackadaisical salute. 

"Promise," Paul mouths.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Twinka for reading, editing and adding little quirky bits that made this whole fic.♡
> 
> The music:
> 
> Stevie Wonder, Reggae Woman
> 
> Rosie and the Originals, Angel Baby- look up John's cover
> 
> Frank Sinatra, What'll I do 
> 
> Dusty Springfield, Believe me
> 
> Paul McCartney, Let me roll it


End file.
